by Gini Rifkin
“You’d best take her in the back way,” she advised. “It’s probably too late to salvage her reputation, but you might at least try.”
****
As the carriage bearing Beatrice disappeared into the night, Walker considered the advice and changed course. Trelayne probably had suffered irreparable social disgrace, which reaffirmed his idea as to what they must do next.
Gaining access to his room via the backstairs, he placed her on the bed near the hearth. She appeared so small and fragile, her form lost in the depth and width of the huge four-poster. Yards of the gossamer dress she wore billowed about, encasing her pale figure in an angelic lavender mist.
The pulse at the side of her throat was too slow, her breathing too shallow. He eased back the lid of one eye—the pupil was unresponsive to light. He’d seen many a stinking drunk sailor on at least three continents, none of them acted like this. He had also seen the opium dens of Hong Kong and Canton. Beatrice had lied. Her lowlife consort had drugged her.
“Wake up, Trelayne. Open your eyes.”
Suppressing the animal instinct for immediate retribution, he fought off the need to track down Lanteen. Not even the pleasure of beating the hell out of the man could induce him to leave the side of the woman he loved. The words echoed through his mind. It was true, he did love her. Being away from Trelayne for the past pain-filled weeks had been a mental torture rivaling the physical agonies of his body. And the thought of seeing her tonight had been a psychological restorative to rival any of Hargis’ potions.
He wet a cloth with water and pressed it to her forehead and wrists. She began to shiver, and he threw more wood on the fire—enough to warm a castle keep. Sweat poured off of him, but she still shook violently. Stripping off his shirt, he slipped into bed, and gathered her close to his bare chest.
“Come on back to me, darlin’,” he urged. “Don’t leave me. You mustn’t.”
Trelayne touched a deeper chord within him than any woman he’d met since losing Katie. He couldn’t explain why—had quit trying. What mattered was the realization he was ready to risk all, ready to gather the tattered pieces of his heart and offer them to her. Hoping it was enough, hoping a future with the woman in his arms would be his redemption from the barren world through which he had traveled for far too many years.
She turned toward him and nestled closer. Her body felt warmer, her respirations deeper and more regular. Her eyelids fluttered open, and smiling sweetly, she reached out to touch his cheek.
“It’s really you,” she murmured. “I thought I must be a dreaming, but my dreams are never blessed with handsome men and passionate interludes.”
She made a weak attempt to kiss his lips. He turned his head aside. Once he tasted her fully, he would never be able to stop. She didn’t know what she was doing, was under the influence of opium and alcohol.
As she played one hand across his bare chest, he gritted his teeth and tried to think of something else, but all he conjured were lusty images of what they would do together. Fingers tangled in his hair, she pressed closer, her body imploring him to want what he knew they might regret in the morning. When his full-blown erection, begging for hard use, took control of body, mind, and soul, his noble intentions faltered.
“Trelayne,” he groaned, with his last ounce of self-control.
“We have to talk.”
The words sound ludicrous, talking was the last thing he wanted to do with her.
“No talk. Just kiss me,” she whispered. “And hold me and make love to me.”
“I’d like nothing more, but I’m here to take care of you, not take advantage of you. Listen to me.”
“No, no, no. I won’t listen,” she shrieked, putting her hands to her ears. She was out of control again, nearly hysterical.
He took her hands from her ears and lowered them. She responded to his touch, her eyes not so wild, the pulse in her wrist once more regular and strong.
“Listen to me,” he insisted. “Lucien drugged you, you’re not thinking clearly.”
“Lucien?” She rose up on one elbow and glanced around, her brow puckered in confusion. “It wasn’t anything like I thought it would be,” she said, sagging back onto the mattress at his side.
His stomach knotted, and fury replaced passionate aspirations. “Did he touch you, force you to do things you didn’t want to do?”
“What? Oh no, nothing, really, just a kiss,” she reassured, her speech slurred. “I meant the Bond, the evening, the adventure. It was nothing I thought it would be. Not romantic at all. Not even fun. All because you weren’t there.”
He blew out a breath of relief. Thank the Lord Lucien hadn’t …damn, he couldn’t even think about it.
Again she ran her hand across his bare chest then laid her head upon his shoulder. He wanted nothing more than to show her what making love could really be like. But the very idea was unconscionable. Although somewhat more lucid, she was still woozy and not thinking clearly, and if he took her here and now, he’d be no better than Lanteen.
She sighed, long and slow, and curled up like a kitten, her eyes closed, a sweet smile upon her lips.
“Trelayne,” he said, and gave her a little jostle.
“Hmmm,” came her drowsy response.
“Tomorrow, we’re getting married.”
Chapter Twenty
Her head felt twice its normal size, and empty of everything accept excruciating pain. With the greatest of care, Trelayne opened her eyes. Where was she? Worse yet, what had happened last night? It was a blank, or at least a dark fuzzy blur.
She concentrated harder. Jagged thoughts surfaced out of the black abyss making her feel worse, which hadn’t seemed possible. Fist clutched against her stomach, she chanced a look around, and her eyes widened in wonder. There was someone asleep on the nearby divan—it was Captain Garrison. More bits and pieces dropped painfully into place, images of kissing him and holding his shirtless body next to hers. Oh, Good Lord. Had she finally done it and didn’t even remember? That would be the ultimate irony. But she didn’t feel any different. Surely she would.
In a panic, she ran her hands along her hips and torso. Although loosened, her clothes were properly in place. Only her shoes and hose were missing. Easing the covers aside, she slid from the bed. The room tilted riotously. After a moment of concerted effort, she gained her balance, tiptoed forward, and stood staring down at Walker.
Fully clothed, he sprawled upon the couch in childlike innocence, one long leg hanging over the side. His shirt was unbuttoned exposing a sinful glimpse of his chest and abdomen. She inched closer and stopped just short of touching the sprinkling of dark hair accentuating his rippling physique. The top of his pants hung loose around his trim waist, there would be just enough room to slip one’s hand inside…
With a mutter, he shifted position. The unbuttoned shirt slid sideways, gaping further open. Her initial rush of delight turned to alarm as a wicked, barely healed, scar showed on his ribcage.
Dropping to her knees, she reached to soothe the tortured flesh then held fast, again not daring to touch him.
“Good morning, Miss St.Christopher.”
She leaped to her feet, regretting the energetic movement as the world swam before her punctuated by streaks of bright lights. “What happened to you?” she asked, cradling her pounding head in one hand. “Is this why you were gone so long?”
Walker swung his legs off the divan, gained his feet, and jammed his shirt into his pants. “Only death or injury would have kept me away,” he said, towering over her. “Don’t you know that by now? And it seems I returned just in time. What in God’s name were you thinking, Trelayne? Lucien had plans for you last evening involving more than dinner and dancing.”
She backed away. His sudden dark attitude took her by surprise, raising her defenses. Going to the Bond with Lucien had been a terrible mistake. She knew that now, and didn’t need a reprimand or to be made to feel the fool. “It’s no business of yours who I see or what I d
o.”
“Oh, but it is. Your father made it my business when he bade me watch over his daughter and keep her safe. I thought it sounded a reasonable request until we met. While I applaud and admire you being a high-spirited filly, your adventurous nature leaves me quaking in my boots. That’s why we’re to be married as soon as possible. It’s the only way to keep you from further harm and repair the damage already done.”
Stunned, she stood in open-mouthed wonder. It sounded more like a plan to throw her into jeopardy. Still, as the notion sank in, part of her thrilled to the idea. Married to Captain Walker Garrison. Her daydream fulfilled, no longer a fantasy, and the thought of him making love to her almost buckled her knees. Then her stubborn streak reared its head. How dare he presume she wanted to be married to anyone, let alone to him?
“I do not wish to marry you. But I appreciate the proposal.”
“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you. That is what is to be done. No doubt half the uppity folks you know are already spreading well-seasoned gossip regarding your escapade of last night. Someone of importance must have seen you at the Consortium, or crossed paths with you as you stumbled down the street in a drugged and tipsy condition. And if that is not enough to sway your decision, you just spent the night with me in this hotel room.”
A sick feeling washed over her, but it was not the lasting effects of overindulgence. She truly had made a muddle of things. Walker was correct. Her reputation was in tatters. She was almost glad her parents weren’t here to witness her disgrace. And oh damnation, Aunt Abigail was going to have a prize winning tizzy-fit.
“Don’t look so horrified,” Walker said, misinterpreting her expression. “It will be in name only. And we can have it all annulled once things settle down and you decide what you truly wish to do.”
In name only—disappointment danced around that revelation. “I must return home at once and let everyone know I’m all right.”
“I sent a message to Royston Hall last evening, and received a reply early this morning. All are in agreement you will follow my instructions to rectify this situation. Your aunt has given us her blessings, and suggested we go to a place called Gretna Greene to have this matter taken care of immediately.”
Rectify the situation? Have this matter taken care of immediately? It sounded more like she was to have an ugly wart removed, not celebrate what should be the wedding day of her dreams. Hands clenched at her side she glared at him.
“I will do no such thing,” she gritted. “And you can’t make me.”
“No, I can’t make you. But there is little choice, unless you’d rather marry Lanteen. He’s the one who put your reputation in peril. I’m sure he would oblige. Although I believe his consort Beatrice would have my scalp if you do.”
Beatrice… The name sounded familiar. Another image of what transpired last evening played across her mind. “Was she the woman who came to me at the Bond? The one who led me to you? I thought the woman was in your employ. What do you insinuate?”
“Beatrice did me the favor of secreting you out of the establishment, but it was for her own gain. She’s Lucien’s lover. And I take it she has been for quite some time.”
His lover? She heard the words, understood the concept, but couldn’t realize their importance. This morning was making as little sense as last evening.
“He drugged you with opium, Trelayne. He planned to seduce you or worse.”
Opium. That’s why she had felt so uninhibited, and had not been able to come to her own defense. As a picture of what might have happened became clear, she clenched a fist to her stomach. All this time she thought Lucien her friend, had trusted him, but he had betrayed her on every level. He’d planned her ruination all along to force her into the marriage she had refused. But if he had a lover—poor thing. Men were inexplicable as well as despicable.
She stumbled across the room, grabbing her shoes and stockings along the way. Walker was correct. Marriage was the only option.
****
The coach was old, and the road to Gretna Greene filled with ruts, the combination devastating to both her head and her bottom.
Refusing to look at Walker, Trelayne stared out the window. It wasn’t because she didn’t want to look at him. Who wouldn’t? The Colt revolver and knife he carried were suitable substitutes for a saber and pistol. And with his hair disheveled and a shadow of a beard glorifying the mustache she so loved, his appearance alluded to all the drama and romantic nonsense of a highwayman. And he may as well have kidnapped her as she was being whisked off to be married by circumstance rather than choice. If he hadn’t insisted it was all for show, the picture would be complete.
In name only… Would he really be able to keep his hands off of her? If he did, it would be a piteous blow to her self-esteem, adding rejection to the wounds already caused by Lucien’s betrayal.
“Will we be there soon?” she asked, and rearranged her position accommodating a new set of bruises on her derriere.
He flashed a boyish lopsided smile. The expression dimpled one cheek and crinkled the corners of both eyes. “Anxious for the proceedings to begin?” he teased.
“Anxious to be out of this rustic carriage,” she snapped, glaring at him.
His expression sobered, and sadness seemed to cloud his blue/gray eyes. “Marriage isn’t the worst thing that can happen to a person, Trelayne.”
“And you would know this because…”
“Because I was married once myself.”
Married. She was stunned. This wretched day was plagued with one shocking disclosure tumbling downhill after another. Then it occurred to her how little she knew about the man she was to wed. A flurry of questions flashed through her mind. What had his wife been like? Why did he use the past tense? Had they been madly in love?
“Did she leave you because you were too often gone adventuring, and had a girl in every port?”
“No. She died.”
Trelayne pressed back against the seat, horrified at her faux pas. “I’m sorry, Walker,” she whispered.
“As am I. But it’s your future which demands our concern, not my past.”
Averting her gaze she stared unseeing at the scenery sliding by. A tear slipped from one eye. Angry with herself for her thoughtless words and foolish suppositions, she roughly swiped it away with the back of her hand.
“I’ve made a terrible muddle of things,” she confessed. “And I’m sorry you are being forced to defend my honor. Since your arrival, you’ve been nothing but kind. You deserve better.”
Walker levered up from the seat, lurched across the moving coach, and resettled himself at her side. “What people deserve and what they get are generally two different matters. And as far as muddling things about, I’ve done my share as well.”
He eased one arm across her shoulder, and his offer of unbidden comfort set loose the floodgates. All the sorrow she felt regarding her parent’s injuries, coupled with the loneliness she had endured of late, blanketed her in darkness. Surrendering to his warmth, she clung to his solid reassuring form, and as they sped northward on what should have been the most joyous day of her life, she cried harder than she had ever cried before.
****
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
Walker gave Trelayne a simple peck on the cheek, but the visions romping through his mind hardened his body rather than his resolve not to touch her. Fighting to keep the burning need in check, he studied her face. Was it his imagination, or did she appear disappointed by his lack of ardor? Guilt stabbed at his gut. That felt real enough. He had married her to keep her safe. At least that had been the idea. Now he wondered if that wasn’t what he wanted all along. Too late to worry over the whys and wherefores. The deed was done.
When Trelayne remained unmoving, he took her arm and escorted her from the chapel. “This way, Mrs. Garrison,” he said, forcing a lightness into his voice he didn’t feel.
An image of Katie flittered across his mind,
the only Mrs. Garrison he’d ever thought to love and cherish as a wife. It was as if her spirit hovered near, her voice just beyond his hearing. It was a joyful feeling, as if she were happy for him. That was a comfort.
Truth be told, he was glad about being a husband once again. The role had always appealed to him. Glancing sideways, he caught sight of his new wife’s stony expression. Apparently, Trelayne was not as thrilled by the condition.
“It will be all right,” he promised, and somehow he would make it so.
The inn where their bridal suite awaited was but a short walk through a nearby overgrown garden. Although the towering vegetation struggled to hold onto the last vestiges of a riotous summer bloom and a peaceful autumnal farewell, it seemed as desolate as their situation.
“It’s too late to travel home tonight,” he said, feeling the need to explain the room, and the necessity to share it. Home—that sounded strange. He supposed he would be living at Royston Hall. For show if for nothing else.
“I’m glad,” she said quietly.
Her mood, unreadable, did not match her words. He supposed only time would reveal how she really felt.
Their love nest was a spacious well-appointed accommodation, worth the price he’d paid to secure it. A fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, and the small table by the window held a late evening repast. A curtained-off section held a huge four-poster bed, a dressing room, and marvels of marvels, a water closet.
Avoiding the sleeping area, he directed her toward the settee. She dropped down upon it with an expression of total defeat. He’d never seen her like this, not even on the day he’d arrived with the bad tidings of her parent’s accident.
He sat at her side, and took her hands in his. They were ice cold. He should add more wood to the fire, but didn’t want to let her go.
“This must not have been what you envisioned for your wedding day,” he began. “If things hadn’t gone sour in Brighton, I would have been in London to stop you. Been there to occupy your time so you wouldn’t have entertained the idea of endangering yourself in such a misadventure.”
